


Children of Men

by Admiral_Red



Series: Our Mistakes on Repeat [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Children, Gen, M/M, OFC - Freeform, OMC - Freeform, Other, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:40:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Admiral_Red/pseuds/Admiral_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond had to have come from somewhere. Meet Gian, Ezio's bastard child sent to live with an eccentric painter. Meet Mariam, Altair's bastard child who likes climbing things. They may never meet, but they will fight crime. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gian da Oreno

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was actually born of two separate ideas I decided to post together. One, I have a headcanon relating to my fic "What We Lose," which is that Altair and Malik eventually find Maria's and his daughter and raise them together as a domestic assassin family. Two, I once posted a prompt on the AC kink meme literally years ago in which Salai is not Leonardo's lover, but rather, Ezio's son. These vignettes are a product of those imaginings. 
> 
> Dubiously canon compliant, especially post ACII. Obviously doesn't take into account the DLC.

_Milan, Italy, 1490 CE_

One sunny day under a table owned by Leonardo Da Vinci, a ten-year-old boy with curly golden hair hugs his legs and resolves to be angry at the world.

“Gian! Gian, _Dios dame paciencia_ , where is that little devil?”

From behind the table cloth, Gian watches the eccentric inventor stumble down the staircase, one hand haphazardly holding his ridiculous hat to his head he swivels frantically, surveying the room. His eyes rest in Gian’s direction, and the little boy scowls, curling even more into himself as Leonardo comes towards him.

The table cloth rises, and reproachful blue eyes peered underneath the table. “Gian, we have spoken about this,” Leonardo says in what the boy supposes the other thought was a stern tone of voice. “Give it back.”

“Give what back?” Gian shot back challengingly. “I don’t know what you are talking about. You are so quick to blame me.”

“I am speaking of the Turkish leather I mean to have made into boots. And I would not be so quick to blame you, Gian, but you have stolen my belongings before, as well as have your parent’s blood flowing through your veins–”

“Are you calling my mother a thief—”

“—And my leather peeking out from underneath your shirt, where else should the blame lie?”

Gian glares at him balefully, but Leonardo’s outstretched hand does not waver. Recognizing the futility of prolonging the fight, he rolls his eyes and pulls the piece of leather out of his shirt, throwing it into Leonardo’s chest.

“Oof! Thank you.” Leonardo places the leather on the table as Gian comes out from underneath it to sit on a stool, folding his arms and letting his scowl deepen. If Leonardo notices, he does not comment upon it. “I was speaking of your father. His hands can be sticky… though I doubt he would encourage your behavior.”

“I do not care what my father thinks,” Gian huffs. “And you have perfectly fine boots. Candy is better than boots.”

“Yes, I rather do like my boots as of now,” Leonardo shrugs. “But you do not have a pair. You would look good in them, I think.”

“Candy is better than boots,” Gian repeated stubbornly, though his face tinges a light pink despite himself. He is still not used to this man’s generosity, this man who still insists on him staying no matter how much Gian tries to make his life hell. Gian wonders how much his father pays him.

Unwary of his thoughts, Leonardo smiles at him, harried but fond. Gian turns away, uncomfortable. No one smiled that warmly at him. No, no one was _allowed_ to smile like that at him, except his mother, he decides resolutely.

“We will buy candy then, _after_ we bring the leather to the cobbler,” Leonardo coaxes. “Alright?”

Before Gian could answer, one of Leonardo’s assistants comes into the workshop. “ _Messer_ Leonardo?”

“Ah, yes!” Leonardo brightens and turns to his assistant, away from Gian. He has the attention span of a puppy, Gian thinks uncharitably. While he is occupied, Gian snatches the leather back and runs out into the streets. Later, Leonardo will turn his sugar-sticky fingers over in his hands and sigh, and Gian will not feel guilty.

Not in the slightest.


	2. Mariam La'Ahad

_Masyaf, Western Syria, 1197 CE_

One summer’s morning, in a hayloft of a castle with no king, a little girl with lively green eyes peers eagerly out of her straw hiding place and resolves to be as crafty as possible.

“Mari! Allah above, where is that cursed girl… Mariam!”

At the voice, Mariam burrows further back into the hay, clapping her hands over her mouth to suppress her giggles. Footsteps on the stone staircase, heard only because their irate owner wanted them to be, become louder, and when the sunlight darkens as the footsteps stop, she bursts out with a battle cry.

“YAAAH- Ah?”

One moment she had been barreling towards worn leather boots below the fringe of an ink black tunic, the next she’s held by the scruff of her collar at a very strong arm’s length, looking directly at furrowed black eyebrows.

Malik is not amused. But that does not register to the four-year-old girl; she only delights that she is in the presence of-

“Ammu Malik!” she gurgles, stretching her chubby little arms towards him.

Her beloved uncle groans and drops her. She lands on her feet, and in unbending her knees she wobbles a little, but remains upright in the end. She laughs and hugs his leg, letting go only when he pries her from him to kneel at her level.

He gives her the beginning of one of his best glares, infamous among the novices, but even it falters faced against a little girl’s large eyes. She smiles expectantly, guileless in her cheer as she vibrates with energy before him. He sighs.

“Mari, what are you doing here?” he demands.

“’Sploring! And scaring Ammu… but it didn’t work,” she says. She shuffles her feet dejectedly. For a moment, a corner of Malik’s mouth trembles in a suspicious manner, but he schools his expression with the air of someone determined to remain cross.

“And you waited two hours in that stack of hay to do so?” Two hours of a Master Assassin father becoming increasingly frantic with concern, and increasingly irritating his second-in-command. Half the irritation came from the fact that his worry was contagious, and Malik hated feeling unsettled, let alone over a child that wasn’t his.

The child in question brightens. “No. I was getting out, but I heard Ammu coming so I hid! But before I was up there.”

Malik looks up to where she points, at the wooden shelves upon shelves lining the circular room. She seems to be pointing to the highest ledge, but that can’t possibly be right, he thinks, because it’s twenty feet above their heads…

“I climbed all the way up,” Mari squeals. “It was hard, but really really fun! And then and then and then and then,” she drums on his knee, beating it with enthusiasm strong enough to make a lesser man wince, “I eagle jumped!”

At this, Malik’s face turned paler than any resident of sun-soaked Masayaf had business being. “What?”

“It was sooooooooooo fun! I spread my arms like wings like Baba and you do, and there was no eagle cry but I did my own, I went ‘CAW CAW, CAW CAW!’ but then I got straw in my mouth.”

She spits out the little left in her mouth to prove her point, and makes a face.

“Mari, are you telling me you jumped from that high ledge?” Malik manages to ask.

She blinks. “Yes. Like you and Baba and everyone do all the time.”

Malik grabs her shoulder and looks her up and down. He pats her limbs, lightly squeezes her ribs, and when Mari responds only by cocking her head sideways, he hangs his head in relief.

He places his hand back on her shoulder, gripping firmly. “Mari, the leap of faith is dangerous for someone who does not know what they are doing,” he tells her. “Ammu Jasham broke his arm the first time he did so, and he was many years older than you are now. If this hay pile were any smaller, you would have been hurt.”

“But I didn’t get hurt! And it was so fun!”

“It doesn’t matter. Mari, promise me you won’t do that again.”

“…But-”

“Mariam.” Malik grabs her chin, and the expression on his face is grave enough that Mari’s heart stills for a moment in her chest. “Promise me.”

“…Okay.” A thought occurs to her, and it makes her eyes well with tears. “Ammu, are you mad? Please don’t be mad. Please, I promise not to d-do it again.”

At the end of her sentence she breaks and begins to wail, swiping her little hands ineffectively across her wet cheeks. Malik exhales. He sweeps Mari up into his arm, and ignores wavering in his chest when those same little tearstained hands clutch onto his robe.

“I am not angry, Mari." You only succeeded in scaring me after all. "You must keep your promise to me, alright?”

“I’ll keep it, Ammu,” she mumbles into the cloth of his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Good. Now let’s go find your father before he sends the whole brotherhood out to search for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ammu = Uncle (on father's side, or simply a respectful term for someone of a lower class)  
> Baba = Daddy
> 
> Of course, this is only what shady sites online have told me, so if anyone who knows Arabic has a bone to pick, please tell me.


End file.
